Scott sits at his desk, shifting through paperwork from his last case that he had been putting off for the last two weeks–despite the fact that his boss had been asking for it every day since he closed the case.

"Hoying!" E.A.D Kaplan calls from the doorway of his office. Scott throws up a hand.

"I'm working on it!" His gruff voice calls over this shoulder, his hand falling back to the keyboard.

"Hoying." Kaplan huffs, already sounding exhausted even though it's only 2pm. Scott swivels and his chair and looks over, giving Kaplan his full attention.

Kaplan holds up a file and motions with it for Scott to get into his office, disappearing back to his desk. Scott stands, his dress shoes brushing along the dingy grey carpet before he steps into Kaplan's office, knowing well enough to close the door behind him.

"What's up?" Scott asks as he takes a seat across from Kaplan.

"Think you may have finally caught a break." Kaplan slides the file across his desk to Scott before leaning back in his chair, watching with old, steel eyes at his young agent.

Scott reaches out and picks it up, his eyes scanning a metro police report.

"What's this?" Scott looks down at the report confused, not understanding how a parking garage shooting was the FBI's concerned. He flips to the next page, his eyes widening when seeing the victim's name.

"Sam Hein?" Scott sits up straighter. "Shelton's finance guy?"

"Was Shelton's finance guy." Kaplan corrects him, shifting in his seat to pick up his coffee cup and take a sip. "Someone gunned him down last night."

Scott closes the file shut and throws it back down onto Kaplan's desk, shrugging.

"So what?" Scott leans back in his chair, holding up his hands. "This isn't the first of Shelton's men to turn up dead. I'll just add him to the list."

Kaplan sighs and shakes his head.

"Would you read the god damn file for once, Hoying?" Kaplan throws the file back at Scott–wishing he could smack him across the head with it–the file caught haphazardly against Scott's chest.

Scott stares at Kaplan for a moment, knowing he's just one more smart-ass remark away from getting chewed out–again–before thumbing through the file, taking time to take in the words on the report.

Scott's back straightens as his shoulders drop.

"There's a witness?" Scott perks up, the pages of the file flying as he tries to find the witness statement.

"A man by the name of Mitchell Grassi encountered the shooter before he fired twice at him." Kaplan relaxes back into his chair.

As Scott's eyes scan through his statement, he realizes the man's description matched that of Adam "La La" Vine, Shelton's unofficial, official right-hand man.

"He saw him." Scott states, his mouth slackening as he runs a hand through his short hair, giving it a slight pull.

After being on this case for seven years, worked eighteen murders, and chased countless leads that always fell through, they finally had a witness.

Kaplan nods, tapping his fingers against the desk.

"Metro PD is holding him right now. I told them you'd be there to pick him up."

Scott jumps up from his chair, tapping the file against the desk and pointing it at Kaplan, biting his lip before heading for the door, suddenly ecstatic.

"And read the damn file for once!" Kaplan yells after him, the tips of his ears turning red from the rise in his blood pressure that only Hoying seems to be able to cause. Scott waves the file above his head, acknowledging he heard him before grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and flipping his car keys into the air and catching them.

He was off to the metro PD for his first break in seven years.

{*#*}

"Can I go home now?" I plead with the detective handling my case.

Between getting my hands stitched and bandaged at the hospital, and going over my statement at the station, I had been going at it for almost fourteen hours. All I wanted to do was go home and take a shower, desperately wanting to wash away the horrors of last night.

The detective sips his coffee, having the same answer for me that he's had the fifty other times I've asked.

"The FBI is taking over jurisdiction of this case–"

"And they're sending someone over soon, yeah, yeah." I finish for him, slumping down into my chair. The detective just shrugs and continues drinking his coffee.

I just cross my arms and glare at him, my head cocked slightly to the side, trying to show him that I wasn't going to stand for this bullshit anymore. He purses his lips at me, then goes back to his coffee.

"You know what?" I slam my hands down on the table, biting down on the pain radiating through my palms. "I've had enough. I," I point to myself, "Am going home. I'm going to take a shower. And I'm going to eat real food that doesn't come from a vending machine. And if this FBI guy wants to find me so bad, give him my address and the asshole can come to me." I shove off from the table, the detective finally showing some sort of reaction as I throw the door open and storm from the room.

"Mister, you really can't leave yet." The detective strolls behind me, not sounding concerned at all, and I briefly wonder if this man was missing his ability to emote.

I spin on your heel, holding up my bandaged hand and point at him.

"Listen up. I witnessed a murder, was shot at, twice. Got fourteen stitches, and have been locked up in this police station like a criminal for hours, being fed shitty coffee and vending machine snacks. I don't care that I 'can't leave,'" I air quote, imitating his monotone voice. "I'm going home." My jaw locks and something in my eyes makes the detective take a step back, holding up his hands.

"Everything okay here?" A voice asks from behind me.

I turn on my heel to see a man in a navy peacoat with a matching tie. He's tall, taller then the cops around him, and dressed much nicer. Even without the VISITOR badge clipped onto his lapel, he clearly doesn't belong here.

He looks down at me, his gaze seeming to study me as his blue eyes lingering on mine just for a moment before looking to the detective behind me.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" I cross my arms, having had enough of everyone in this police station.

I can see the flash of amusement in his eyes before he ducks his head down and reaches into his pocket.

"Scott Hoying." He flips open a badge. "FBI." He smirks at me, obviously thinking I should be impressed.

My arms fall to your sides and I take a deep breath.

"Your the guy who has been making me wait here for hours?" My voice raises. Confusion crosses across his face and he reaches back into his coat and pulls out a small notepad. I frown as he flips through some pages, stopping to read something.

"You're Mitchell Grassi?" He reads off the paper before glancing up at me, the most innocent look on his face.

I can feel the rage spreading through my body. I bite down, my jaw clenching as I take a deep breath and count to ten.

"I'm out of here."

He holds up a finger to say something, but I push past him before he can even get a word out, shaking my head as I rip off your visitor badge and throw it on a random desk as I storm out.

The evening light is a welcomed relief after hours of sitting under the fluorescents. The wind whips at my hospital sweats–my clothes had been taken in as evidence–and I find myself missing my jacket. Cars whip by me on the main road, paying me no attention until I step on the curb side and raise my hand at the taxis passing by.

"Where the hell are you going?" A voice carries over the wind. I peek over my shoulder, seeing the FBI agent hurrying down the steps of the police station towards me.

I hear a car pull up beside me and turn to see a yellow cab waiting.

I ignore his question and pull the door open and hop inside.

"709 Jefferson Court," I tell the driver, and he nods to me in the rearview mirror.

I reach out to shut the door when a hand wraps around the frame and pulls it back open.

"Hey, we're not done yet. I need to take your statement." He leans into the cab, the look in his eyes clearly telling me he's used to getting his way.

"Tough shit. I'm going home." I push his hand off the door and slam it shut, the cabbie–bless him–pulling away before the agent could open the door again.

I take in a deep breath, letting it settle in my lungs before I sigh, leaning back against the leather seats and closing my eyes, finally on my way home.